


In The Bleak Midwinter

by TaraTheMeerkat



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Father B and Mrs M and Flambeau and Hornby are Bunty's family, Father Brown is Bunty's dad, Flambeau is in love with Father Brown but very sadly he's also an emotionally constipated fool, Hornby is there too but only briefly, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mrs McCarthy is Bunty's mum, Whump, anyway Flambeau nearly dies but it's okay, fuck the actual windermere family all my homies hate the windermere family, locked in a freezer, so needs must, tfw the entire found family needs like so much therapy, who has to face imminent death in order to confront his feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: “You have to admit, Father,” Flambeau said. “This is definitely not how anyone ever thought it would end for me. Frozen to death in a butcher’s shop in England, with a priest.”Father Brown smiled. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, increasingly breathlessly, Flambeau noted, but earnestly. “There’s no-one I’d rather be locked in a freezer with.”Flambeau furrowed his brow. “I’m… really not sure how to take that, Father.”(OKAY SO. I originally wrote this for Crime & Christmas 2020, prompt 10: shared body heat, but as you can see, this got way out of hand and went WAY beyond that. Now it's my longest fic, and I missed the rest of the prompts. Whoops I guess.)
Relationships: Bridgette McCarthy & Penelope "Bunty" Windermere, Father Brown & Penelope "Bunty" Windermere, Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 15
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

Flambeau slammed his fist against the cold steel door, causing it to vibrate ever so slightly, but otherwise not budge. He gave a yell of anger and frustration and raised his fist to slam it against the steel once more, before a quiet voice from behind him stilled it.

“Don’t,” said the voice, softly, and almost of its own accord, Flambeau’s fist lowered, hanging uselessly by his side, but still clenched, and trembling. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Flambeau turned, anger burning inside him, although it was hard to tell if the anger was directed at the far too calm priest, the man who had locked them in here, or himself, for allowing this to happen. He fumed as in looked down at Father Brown, who had sat down upon the cold hard floor, knees bunched up in front of him. He wasn’t even looking at Flambeau; his head was tipped back, leaning against the dirty wall, staring up and the slightly bloodied meat hooks that hung above his head. 

A single pig carcass hung macabrely on the opposite wall of the meat freezer the two men found themselves within, and Flambeau almost felt as though it were mocking them. _It’s alright for you, my porcine friend,_ he thought, dryly. _You’re already dead. At least your death was over quickly._

“What does it _matter_ if I hurt myself, Father?” he snapped, turning his attention back to the priest, still silently sitting and staring. “What difference does it make? We’re both going to die here, you do know that. We shall freeze here. Slowly, and gradually, and painfully. And for what, hmm? For _what_?”

“We might not.” Father Brown’s voice was soft, outwardly calm, but there was something odd about it. Something light. Something unnatural. Almost _too_ calm. “Someone will come. It’ll be alright, Hercule.”

 _“How?!”_ Flambeau cried, his voice veering on high pitched, frantic. “No-one knows we’re even here, Father! How can it _possibly_ be alright?”

“I don’t know,” Father Brown’s voice stayed soft, light, but it wavered slightly. “I just have to believe it will.” His voice cracked and he broke away, closing his eyes tightly, as though trying to block out the reality. With a jolt, Flambeau realised that Father Brown was just as terrified as he was, and suddenly felt uncomfortably guilty for his anger.

“Father?” his own voice was soft, wavering, now. He crouched down in front of the priest, who was breathing heavily, his eyes still closed. “Father.” He placed a hand on the Father’s shoulder. Father Brown jumped as though shocked, his eyes startling open.

“Hercule,” he said, not making eye contact. Then, quietly: “I’m sorry. This is my fault.”

Flambeau sat back, furrowing his brow in confusion. “Father,” he said. “Unless you are about to start taking credit for my brilliant heist plans, I think you’ll find _I’m_ the reason we’re here.”

He felt oddly pleased to see Father Brown give a small smile in response.

Brown sighed, finally looking him in the eye. “I’m the one who insisted we try to talk to Underwood in person,” he said, meekly. “I should’ve trusted your judgement. I should’ve trusted _you_ , Hercule.”

Flambeau blinked. “Father,” he said, laughing slightly in disbelief. “I have been reliably informed that _no-one_ should trust me.”

Father Brown tilted his head to one said though considering him carefully, but said nothing. Instead he sighed, shivered, and wrapped his arms around himself. After a brief moment of consideration of his own, Flambeau sat down next to the priest, leaning again the cold wall.

The cold was biting, painful, and increasingly difficult to ignore. Every second seemed like an eternity. How long _had_ they been trapped there? He checked his watch, and gave a wistful, ironic smile.

“Father?” he whispered.

“Hmm?”

“It’s past midnight, Father. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Oh.” The priest sounded stilted, difficult to read. “Merry Christmas,” he said, dryly.

Flambeau gave a small chuckle.

Father Brown turned his head to face him, and quirked an eyebrow. “I fail to see the humour, Hercule. If I die here, where on earth will they find a replacement to take midnight mass in time?”

Despite his best efforts to stifle it, Flambeau laughed out loud at that. “You have to admit, Father,” he said. “This is definitely not how anyone ever thought it would end for me. Frozen to death in a butcher’s shop in England, with a priest.”

Father Brown smiled. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, increasingly breathlessly, Flambeau noted, but earnestly. “There’s no-one I’d rather be locked in a freezer with.”

Flambeau furrowed his brow. “I’m… really not sure how to take that, Father.”

The priest chuckled softly. “What I mean is,” he said, in a light, melancholy tone. “If I am to die here, it’s an honour to die by your side.”

Flambeau swallowed heavily and fell silent, those words reeling around his head. He sat back, listening to the man beside him breathing. The cold was creeping painfully into every part of his being now, like some kind of invisible creature, claws of ice tearing into his skin, ripping into his lungs with every breath. He wondered briefly if the Father felt the same, but something stopped him from asking. The idea of this same cold agony tearing at Father Brown’s lungs felt so horribly, horribly, wrong. If any man definitely didn’t deserve to suffer like this, it was he.

One of them would die before the other, he realised, with a jolt. One of them would slip away into oblivion, and the other would be forced to spend their final moments on this earth staring at their lifeless corpse. With a slight panic he turned his head, making sure he could still see Father Brown’s eyes blinking at nothing in particular, still hear him breathing. The thought of the Father slipping away beside him, and him helpless to do anything to stop it filled him with a sense of utter misery and despair such as he hadn’t tasted since his youth.

“I don’t want you to die, Father,” he said, suddenly, surprising himself with how unlike himself he sounded, how irritatingly _vulnerable._ He wished he could take the words back, but instead they hung thick and heavy in the air, weighing over the continued silence. Silence upon silence.

Regret over speaking turned to vague panic over the lack of a reply.

 _No,_ he thought, desperately. _No, please. Not yet. It’s too soon._

He swiftly struggled to sit up onto his knees, placing both hands on Father Brown’s shoulders and briskly shaking him. When did he fall asleep? How had Flambeau failed to notice? He cursed himself, shaking the priest once more. “Wake up, Father,” he said, firmly. With one hand, he patted Father Brown’s cheek, with as much force as he dared. “Wake up. Wake _up,_ you _stupid_ old fool.”

“’m not a fool,” Brown mumbled indistinctly, blearily opening his eyes, blinking up at Flambeau.

Flambeau let out a breath and a watery smile he somehow felt unable to prevent. “Yes you are,” he said, affectionately, not removing his hand from Father Brown’s cheek. The cheek was cold, far too cold, and Flambeau didn’t dare remove his palm, in case he allowed it to become colder still. “You’re the biggest fool I ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“Oh. Well, you’re probably right.” Father Brown raised a cold, trembling hand, and brushed his fingers across Flambeau’s own, still cupping his cheek.

Flambeau let out a trembling gasp, and shivered.

Father Brown frowned. “You’re so _cold_ , Hercule,” he murmured. “You’re like ice.”

Flambeau gave him a wry, crooked smile. “I am freezing to death, you know, Father. You’re cold too.” His smile dropped, and he sagged onto the floor. “Far, far, too cold. We’re _dying_ , Father. We’re both dying.”

He was exhausted, he suddenly realised. With every blink, it become more and more of an effort to open his eyes once more. His hand dropped from the priest’s face, coming to rest absent-mindedly on his chest, instead. The part of Flambeau’s brain that wasn’t currently lost in a deepening fog registered the intimacy of the gesture, but he felt he didn’t have the strength to pull away. The increasingly sluggish and foolish part of his brain found himself fascinated, strangely comforted by the feel of the rise and fall of Brown’s chest, the feeling of his heart still doggedly drumming away beneath his fingers.

“Someone might still come, Hercule,” said Father Brown, but his voice had lost all certainty, the words were just empty attempts at comfort.

“We’ll be long dead by then, Father,” Flambeau replied, not lifting his head, unable to make eye contact.

“We might not be.” Brown paused, then continued, in barely more than a whisper. “ _You_ might not be.”

Flambeau’s head snapped up to see his priest looking at him with big, sad eyes, and his breath caught in his throat. “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “No, Father, don’t say that. Don’t even _say_ that. Either we both die here, or we both get out of here alive, but you can’t- I can’t-” he shook his head as though in an effort to clear it from the cold fog that filled his brain. “I _can’t,_ Father,” he breathed, his voice pitiful, almost pleading. _I would rather die here than go on living my life without you,_ he thought, but he said no more out loud. He couldn’t. He knew that if he tried, the words would stick in his throat like cotton wool, and choke him.

“Hercule?”

“Yes, Father?” The words were thick with cold, with tiredness, and with emotions that Flambeau dared not name.

“Would you… would you hold me? Please?”

Flambeau blinked. Father Brown’s heart pounded beneath his fingers.

“We have a better chance of surviving longer if we share body heat?” Brown said, though it sounded suspiciously more like an excuse than a reasoning.

Flambeau didn’t have the strength to argue. He gave a single nod and sank into the priest, wrapping both arms around him, hesitantly at first, but clinging ever tighter in an attempt to squeeze any small bit of warmth from the gesture. He buried his face into Father Brown’s shoulder, silently breathing against him. Slowly, impossibly gently, as though he were an icicle that may snap at any moment, Father Brown wound his arms around him in return. His breath was shaky, uneven. His fingers clutched at Flambeau’s clothes, a strange, desperate gesture.

“Thank you,” he whispered, sounding distant. “Thank you.”

The idea that anyone should come to Flambeau for comfort was utterly baffling. The idea that Father Brown of all people should _want_ comfort from him, should actively seek out comfort, from _him_ – it just didn’t make sense. He closed his eyes, screwing them shut, and breathed heavily, buried his face even further into the priest’s shoulder as though trying to smother himself, and willed the fog in his brain to dissipate, so that he might begin to make sense of all this.

“Hercule?” came a small, concerned voice. “Are you alright?”

Flambeau made an attempt at a bitter laugh that came out sounding rather more hysterical than intended. “Of course I’m not alright, Father. Of _course_ I’m not alright. Everything hurts, _everything,_ things I didn’t even know it was possible to hurt, it all _hurts,_ and I’m tired, and I can’t even _think_ properly-” he clung ever tighter in his panic, his fingertips digging in sharply, but if it caused the Father any pain, he didn’t say anything. “I’m dying, I’m _dying,_ Father, and _you’re_ dying, and I – I can’t save you. What good am I if I can’t even save you?”

Father Brown said nothing, but a hand crept up Flambeau’s back, coming to rest on the back of his head, fingers burying themselves in his hair. “You are good,” the Father whispered, at last, after a long, pregnant pause. “You’re a good man, Hercule. You may not believe it, and you may not always show it, but you are a good man, when you let yourself be.” He paused, his breath worryingly shallow and erratic. “You have so much potential to do good in the world. So much. I only wish you could see that.”

Flambeau smiled an ironic smile into Father Brown's shoulder. “That’s sweet of you to say, Father, if wildly deluded,” he murmured. “But even if that were true, I’m afraid it’s far too late for anything to come of it now. Any… _potential-_ ” he spoke the word as though it were something rude or vulgar - “for good that might once have resided within me dies with me, if it didn’t already die long ago.”

Father Brown ran trembling fingers through Flambeau’s hair, and when he spoke, his voice sounded genuinely and truly mournful, as though it trembled with more than just the cold. “I always believed in you,” he said. “Always.”

Flambeau’s chest hurt terribly. He told himself it was just the cold. Just the strain on his lungs. Accepting otherwise now wouldn’t do anyone any good. “That’s because you’re a fool,” he said, simply.

“So I’m told,” Father Brown said softly, fond smile evident in his voice. “The biggest fool you ever had the misfortune to meet, I hear.”

They had sat together in silence for a few moments, clinging to each other, just listening to each other breathing, when suddenly Father Brown gave a heavy sigh, his fingers deepening into Flambeau’s hair, pulling closer.

“What is it, Father?” Flambeau said, said, softly.

Father Brown sighed once more. “It’s just – I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but –” he paused for thought, audibly licking his lips. “Why do you _do_ it, Hercule?”

Flambeau groaned internally. Were they really doing this _now_? Of all times? “Do _what,_ Father?” he all but snapped through gritted teeth, voice low and dangerous, but he did not make the slightest move to lift his head from the priest’s shoulder, nor to unwind his arms from firmly around the other man’s chest.

Instead of answering straight away, Father Brown gave another small sigh, and clung ever tighter, resting his own head on top of Flambeau’s, rubbing his cheek against the thief’s hair. “All of this, Hercule,” he said at last, feebly. “Why do you get yourself in such dangerous situations? Why –” he audibly licked his lips once more. “Why do you bring _me_ into these dangerous situations?”

Flambeau closed his eyes. The pain in his chest worsened. A horrible, heavy, sensation. He felt sick.

“Not that – I don’t mean –” Father Brown floundered, sounded vaguely panicked, and paused again, presumably to compose his thoughts, if his brain was as foggy and confused as Flambeau’s. “It’s not that I don’t like seeing you,” he said, in slow, measured breaths. Flambeau did not like to linger on if it was the worsening cold or words he was speaking that caused him to speak like that. “I do. I need you to know that. I’m always… always _so happy_ to see you again. So happy. I’d put up with any danger for that.” Brown rubbed his cheek against Flambeau’s hair once more. “It’s just that – You _only_ come when you’re in some sort of danger, or when you want my help in some scheme. I feel so… so _at ease_ with you, and I feel like you’re at ease with me too, and then whenever I feel we’re finally getting somewhere, we’re finally on the same page, you run away again. And I was just wondering – I was wondering –”

Father Brown’s breathing was becoming shallow and erratic, and Flambeau realised with a jolt that his forehead was becoming strangely damp. _Heaven help me, he’s **crying** , _he thought, the sickening realisation dawning on him. He was filled with a strange yearning to sit up, to cup the dear man’s face in his hands, to tenderly wipe away those tears.

He didn’t.

He stayed completely still, his breathing shallow. His chest was in agony.

“Hercule?” Father Brown sounded so utterly miserable. Flambeau couldn’t bear it. Flambeau couldn’t move. “Answer me truthfully, Hercule. Do I… Hercule, do I actually _mean_ anything to you? Or am I just... a game? A fun distraction?”

“Father.” Flambeau clutched at the priest’s cassock. Every breath felt like breathing knives. Forcing out every word felt like ploughing through a snow drift. The words demanded to be forced out, regardless. “You mean. _Everything._ To me.”

There was so much more to be said, but it hung in the air, unspoken, like snowflakes that couldn’t fall, because it was too cold even to snow.

“Oh,” said Father Brown, in the smallest voice he had ever heard. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Flambeau whispered, his voice hoarse, rasping, barely there. “I’m sorry.”

“Shhhh.” Father Brown pressed a trembling kiss to Flambeau’s forehead. “Hush now,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry too.”

Flambeau struggled with all his might, desperate to reassure the priest, to question what he even had to be sorry for, but the last of his energy seemed to escape him. He didn’t even have the energy to part his lips, or to open his eyes, now. He was tired. So very tired.

His breath slowed, and shallowed. The meat freezer seemed far away somehow, now, as though it didn’t quite exist in the same world as him. Perhaps it had all been a dream. He didn’t even feel so cold, now. Just tired. Too tired. He loosened his grip on his priest, and let his aching body relax.

“Hercule?” Father Brown’s voice sounded distant, as though it came from miles away, or as though he were at the bottom of a very deep well, and the Father at the top. Flambeau was too tired to question it. He just wanted to rest, now. His breathing slowed further still. Breathing was too much effort. Too tiring. He didn’t have the energy to breathe, anymore.

 ** _“Hercule??”_** The Father’s voice sounded frenzied, panicked, and a million miles away. Flambeau wanted to answer him, ask him what the matter was, but the arms of sleep were far too inviting. He was sure the dear priest would forgive him, when next he woke.

 _I love him,_ he thought, happily. _God, I love him._

He let out a final breath, and let the darkness envelop him.


	2. Chapter 2

“Honestly, what _was_ the Father thinking, coming out here alone, to this den of criminality, with _Flambeau_ of all people?” Mrs McCarthy grumbled, as she trudged along the grimy grey street, illuminated only by a dusky streetlamp.

“Well he’s hardly _alone_ if he’s with Flambeau, is he?” Bunty Windermere hissed back, squinting around herself attentively, as though looking out for possible assailants.

Mrs McCarthy tutted. “Oh yes, because that makes it so much better, doesn’t it?” she said. “Forgive me if I’m not instantly put at ease.”

“Oh now _really_ , Mrs M,” said Bunty, forgetting to be quiet for a moment. “I do think you ought to give him a chance. I think he’s rather sweet, once you get to know him.”

 _“Sweet??”_ said Mrs McCarthy, also forgetting to keep her voice down in her incredulity. “Oh, and you’ve always been _such_ a good judge of character, I suppose, young miss?”

“Yes! Well… No, but…” With a heavy sigh, Bunty decided to stop walking and rest a moment, leaning against a lamppost. “The Father seems awfully fond of him. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

Mrs McCarthy ground to a halt too, folding her arms and casting her eyes heavenward. “Yes, well. If we all went around blindly trusting everyone Father Brown seems awfully fond of, then where would we be? He’s also very fond of Harold Slow. Not to mention how very fond he is of you, Penelope.”

Bunty smiled to herself, thrilled to be one of the undesirables Father Brown was very fond of, thank you very much, before she remembered to be cross at what Mrs McCarthy was actually implying. “And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” she said, with a sniff.

“I think you know full well what that’s supposed to mean.”

The clock in the town square struck suddenly, making both women jump. Bunty looked around foolishly in a panic, as though the chiming sound somehow came from a human attacker.

“Oh, would you just listen to that,” said Mrs McCarthy, with another tut.

Silently, and slowly, Bunty raised a hand, in a shushing gesture.

Mrs McCarthy ignored it and continued to talk. “One o’clock! One o’clock in the morning, Christmas Eve, and here we are, in this backwater town, on a wild goose chase!”

“Mrs M –”

“I’ll bet you the Father isn’t even here. I shouldn’t wonder Flambeau has already whisked him off somewhere else, without so much as a by your leave.”

“Mrs M!”

“And no-one thinks to inform _us_ , do they? Oh no, we’re just the ones sitting awake back at the presbytery, worrying ourselves silly. Why should we be told?”

_“Mrs M!”_

“What is it now, Penelope?” Mrs McCarthy snapped.

Silently, Bunty pointed across the road.

There, across the street, outside a rather dingy looking butcher’s shop, leaning against another lamppost, the perfect mirror image of the one Bunty currently leaned against, stood a lone black bicycle.

“Holy mother!” cried Mrs McCarthy in a hushed voice, as the two women rushed across the road. “Is it his?” she asked, once she had caught her breath, as Bunty briefly examined the bike.

“It’s his alright,” said Bunty, crouching down and running a finger along the spokes of one of the wheels. “I’m the one who last fixed it. I’d recognise it anywhere.”

“Well where _is_ he, then?”

Bunty stood up, paced across to the filthy butcher’s shop window, and pressing her face against the glass, peered in. She squinted, trying to see anything in the darkness, willing her eyes to adjust faster. There, lying in a single silver strip of light shining into the shop from the streetlamp, lay a battered black umbrella, abandoned on the floor. She swallowed, telling herself firmly that it didn’t necessarily mean anything bad that the umbrella was here without its owner. Afterall, Father Brown could easily have put it down, got distracted, and forgotten about it. That seemed the sort of thing he’d do.

“He’s here,” she told Mrs McCarthy, briskly. “Or if he isn’t, he _was_. This is our best lead, anyway. We need to get inside.”

“Oh, and how do you propose we do that, clever clogs?” said Mrs McCarthy. “The door is locked.” And she jiggled the large padlock on the shop door, for emphasis.

“Not to worry!” said Bunty, rummaging in her handbag. “Ta-da!” With a flourish, she produced a full set of lockpicks, in a rather beautiful leather case. She knelt in front of the padlock and set to work, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration, in a way her mother always used to scold her for as a child. Bunty had always protested that she didn’t understand _why_ she had to be dignified and ladylike when all she was doing was drawing a picture inside her own home, which would always lead to Bunty being punished, for reasons she could never make sense of. _If only you could see me now, mother dearest,_ she thought in amusement. _I finally have a talent. I may not be able to embroider, or talk politics, but I am really rather good at breaking and entering._

“Oh Penelope, _really_ ,” said Mrs McCarthy, disapprovingly, though her tone lacked the heat behind it that Bunty’s mother’s voice had always had. “Don’t tell me _you’re_ a graduate of the Sidney Carter college of breaking and entering too?”

“What?” said Bunty, distractedly. “Oh no, Sid didn’t teach me this!” the padlock clicked encouragingly. “Father Brown did!”

“He- he _what?_ ”

“Who do you think gifted me the lockpicks?” With that, the padlock swung open, and Bunty stood up, grinning triumphantly, and pushed the door open, gesturing for the flabbergasted Mrs McCarthy to step inside.

“…That was very quick!” said Mrs McCarthy, at last. “Should I be impressed, or concerned?”

“I’ll happily take ‘impressed’, thanks,” said Bunty, fishing a torch out of her handbag, and shining it around the shop.

“Well. Well done, Penelope, anyway,” said Mrs McCarthy softly, giving Bunty a brief pat on the hand. “We’d still be locked outside if it wasn’t for your more… _questionable_ talents, so I suppose we should be grateful.”

Bunty flushed in delight at the compliment. “You know me, Mrs M,” she said, unable to keep the smile out of her voice. “I live to please.”

She strode over to the umbrella, picking it up, running her fingers over the familiar bumps and scratches on the handle, fresh worry stirring in her chest.

“Father?” she called out, louder than she’d dared to before. “Father, are you in here?” She strode behind the counter, and through the door into the dark back room.

“Penelope!” Mrs McCarthy hissed. “Be _careful!_ ”

“I’m just going to have a quick look, Mrs M,” Bunty called behind her. “You keep watch by the door.”

“Oh- alright,” said Mrs McCarthy, worry evident in her voice. “But do be _careful_. If the Father really _is_ missing, or if, God forbid, something _has_ happened –” she broke off, and sighed. “I just don’t want to lose you both, is all.”

Bunty turned and gave Mrs McCarthy a smile, suddenly overcome by a rush of affection for the older lady. “Oh, Mrs M…” she said, suddenly choked up.

Mrs McCarthy made a shooing gesture, suddenly brisk. “Oh now this is no time to be getting all soppy, is it? Get on with you now. Just be quick.”

Bunty gave a brisk nod, turned, and marched through the little door.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell, and shone her torch along the wall, searching for a light switch. Finding one, she flicked it on, the lights humming alarmingly as the flickered into life. She blinked as her eyes became accustomed to the sudden brightness, looking around the little room.

She stopped, suddenly. Her eyes fell on something familiar. A round black hat, lying on the floor at the far end of the room, in front of a formidable looking steel door. She sprinted across the room. The door was padlocked. _Why would anyone padlock a meat freezer inside a shop that was already padlocked itself?_ She thought. _Unless there was something inside you **really** didn’t want getting out…_

“Father?” she called, panic truly rising in her throat now. “Father, are you in there?”

She pounded her fist against the door as hard as she could, producing a cold, rhythmic noise.

_CLANK. CLANK. CLANK._

Her hand began to hurt. “FATHER?” she called, in desperation, not knowing what she feared more: the answer, or the lack of one?

Suddenly, she heard a voice. Small, quiet, barely audible, but mistakenly there. “Bunty?” said the voice, sounding confused, uncertain, and terrifyingly frail, but very much _there_ , and very much alive.

Bunty sagged against the door, but her relief was short lived. “Don’t worry, Father!” she called. “I’m going to get you out!” And she once again retrieved her lockpicks from her bag, and set to work on the second padlock.

She didn’t even lift her head at the sound of footsteps hurrying up behind her.

“What on earth is all this noise?” said Mrs McCarthy, in a hushed tone.

“It’s the Father,” said Bunty, still not looking up from her task. “He’s in there.” And she nodded at the great steel door.

“Holy mother!” gasped Mrs McCarthy. “And _where_ is that Flambeau?”

“I don’t know,” said Bunty, in her smallest and most childlike of voices. “I don’t _know_ , Mrs M.”

Mrs McCarthy rested a hand on her shoulder, and gave the gentlest of squeezes. As though encouraged by the gesture, the padlock fell away at last, and Bunty stood, swinging the great door open.

As she stepped inside, she gasped at what she saw within.

Huddled, against a wall, sat Father Brown. Pale, and trembling. Clutched tightly in his arms was the slumped, alarmingly still figure of Hercule Flambeau. Both men were an unnatural, unearthly pale.

“Father?” Bunty said, softly, and cautiously.

Father Brown looked up at her. His eyes were wide, and frantic, and his cheeks were wet with tears. “Bunty,” he whispered, sounding almost entirely unlike himself. Quiet, and lost, and afraid. “I knew you’d come. I told him he just had to hold on a little longer. I _told_ him.”

Bunty felt as though her heart would break. Seeing the Father like this felt so completely and utterly wrong, he ought to always be the strongest, brightest, most brilliant person in any room. She felt a rage brewing in her chest. _I’ll kill whoever did this,_ she thought. _I’ll kill them. I’ll rip them limb from limb._ Carefully, she dropped to her knees in front of the priest. The floor was almost painfully cold. How long had the two men been in here? “Come on, Father,” she said, as calmly as she could muster. “We need to get you out of here. You need to see a doctor.”

She tried to prise his arms from around Flambeau. Dazed and delirious, Father Brown shook his head and clung tighter. “No,” he murmured, more to himself then anything. “No.”

“Father, _please_.” Bunty felt her voice crack, and tears begin to slip down her own cheeks. “ _Please,_ Father. I _need_ to get you out of here. I need you, Father. _Please_.”

Father Brown blinked, and looked at her, as though seeing her properly for the first time since she’d entered the freezer. He frowned at her, his face a picture of concern. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. He loosened his grip, and clumsily tried to get to his feet, with little success.

“Mrs M!” Bunty called out. Mrs McCarthy hurried in, taking Father Brown’s arm, and slowly guided him to the door, and out into the relative warmth and air of the shop. Bunty wrapped her arms around Flambeau’s chest and staggered to her feet, half dragging, half carrying the thief out of the freezer.

Once outside, she gently lowered him to the dirty floor, propped up with his back against the wall. She dropped to her knees once more, examining him. He wasn’t breathing. Oh _God,_ he wasn’t breathing. She glanced over her shoulder to see Mrs M gently sitting Father Brown down on a wooden crate. She turned back to Flambeau.

“Don’t _do_ this to him, you _bastard_ ,” she hissed furiously at the slumped figure. “You _can’t_ do this to him. Not like this. Not at Christmas.”

She stooped, pressing an ear to his chest. To her infinite relief, she heard a heartbeat. Faint, and fluttering, but unmistakeably there.

“Right,” she hissed, sitting up again. “I _know_ you’re not dead, and you’re not _going_ to die, do you hear me?” She firmly patted Flambeau’s cheek, turning his uncomfortably pale and lifeless face to face her. His lips were tinged with blue. It made her blood run cold. “Do you have any _idea_ what your death would do to the Father? I’ll tell you what it would do. It would _destroy_ him, and you and I both know he doesn’t deserve that.” She patted his cheek harder, her hand leaving patches of pink against the deathly pale. “I won’t _let_ you do this. I’m warning you. You’d better start breathing again. Just _breathe_ , you utter, utter, _bastard_.” She raised her hand and gave his face a final hard slap.

Upon contact, he gasped, a frail, shuddering gasp, and began to breathe once more. His breaths were, ragged, shallow, uneven, and he still did not open his eyes or wake up, but he was _breathing._

Bunty let out a deep sigh. She turned and looked over her shoulder once more to see Mrs McCarthy doing her best to wrap a knitted shawl around Father Brown’s shoulders, and Father Brown doggedly refusing to hold onto it.

“Father!” Bunty called. Drowsily, as though drugged, Father Brown lifted his head. “He’s breathing, Father! He’s alive!”

As though renewed with fresh energy, Father Brown staggered to his feet and hurriedly stumbled across the little room, falling to his knees beside Bunty. “Hercule,” he said, softly, sounding the most alert, the most awake, the most _himself_ he had sounded since Bunty found him. “Hercule,” he repeated, a multitude of unreadable emotions in his voice, a certain warmth and life back in his eyes, and he reached out a shaking hand, and tenderly, ever so tenderly, brushed his fingers across the cheek Bunty had so recently slapped in anger with a gentleness and affection such as Bunty had rarely seen, her whole life.

Bunty looked from Father Brown, to Flambeau, to Father Brown again, her eyes wide, then narrowing. She longed to say more, to ask so many questions, but as she looked up, she saw Mrs McCarthy peering over them in concern, and decided to keep her mouth shut. _Perhaps now isn’t the time,_ she thought.

“We need to get these two to a doctor, as quickly as possible,” Mrs McCarthy said, gently, but firmly. Bunty nodded, and sniffed, wiping at her face, still wet with tears. Silently, Mrs McCarthy passed her a handkerchief, and Bunty took it, smiling at her gratefully.

“Help me get them to my car,” she said, once she had wiped her face and blown her nose. Then: “Mrs M?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Mrs McCarthy smiled. “What on earth for, Penelope?”

Bunty shrugged. “For… For just being _you,_ I suppose.”

And she got to her feet, the two women half carrying the two men out into the cold night.

* * *

Flambeau awoke with a groan. Where _was_ he? Someone was humming, somewhere nearby. _In The Bleak Midwinter,_ if he wasn’t mistaken.

With a superhuman effort, he opened his eyes. There was a window to his right, the curtains open, the sun streaming in. _It’s daytime, then,_ he thought. _Very nice curtains, too. And very nice wallpaper. Whoever’s bed this is, they have extremely expensive tastes._

He felt completely drained of energy, and mildly feverish. The humming still continued, somewhere to his left. With a disconcerting amount of effort, he turned his head. There was a second bed, not far from his own, unoccupied, although it clearly had been occupied, recently. In the corner of the room stood a small Christmas tree, decorated with tinsel. Between the two beds, fussing over a vase of flowers, stood a familiar figure, her back to him.

“…Mrs McCarthy?” he said, shocked and appalled at how hoarse and frail his voice sounded.

Mrs McCarthy, jumped slightly, stopping humming, and turned to him.

“Oh, so you’re finally awake, then? You do realise you’ve been asleep for nearly a day and a half? You’ve led us all a merry dance, and this being Christmas as well. I’ve missed midnight mass for the first time in twenty years, all because of you.” Her voice was scolding, admonishing, but Flambeau could see relief in her eyes. He suspected that fussing and scolding was the only way Mrs McCarthy knew to express any emotion. In a way, he sympathised.

It was Christmas day, then. He thought back, trying to remember how he had got here. In a rush, it all came back to him. Underwood, the butcher’s shop, that damned meat freezer, Father Brown holding him, Father Brown’s ragged breaths, Father Brown _crying…_

“Where is he?” he said, suddenly, sharply.

“I’m sorry?” Mrs McCarthy blinked at him.

Flambeau swallowed, heavily. His mouth was very dry. “Where’s Father Brown? Is he alright?”

Mrs McCarthy visibly softened. “He’s quite alright,” she said, stepping over to the bed, and patting Flambeau reassuringly on the elbow. “Well, that is to say… He’s not _quite_ alright, he has hypothermia – you both do – but don’t worry!” She said hurriedly, raising a hand in a reassuring gesture, catching sight of Flambeau’s wild expression.

With a sigh, she pulled over a little chair, and sat down next to Flambeau’s bed.

“You _really_ both ought to be in hospital,” she continued. “But Penelope feared the hospital would phone the police, and getting you sent to prison would hardly be in the spirit of Christmas now, would it?”

Flambeau smiled at her, despite himself. He couldn’t help but feel a certain fondness for Father Brown’s closest two friends, even if he did still find most of Kembleford exceedingly tiresome.

“So we’re all of us spending Christmas here, at Montague. Penelope is paying out the nose for some fancy-pants private doctor. He’s the family doctor of one of Penelope’s unscrupulous London friends. The sort of doctor that will turn a blind eye to anything for the right price, I’m sure _you_ know the sort.”

Flambeau _did_ know the sort, very well.

“He’s out in the gardens, somewhere, taking a late morning stroll. Typical that he should stay fussing around all night, only for you to wake up at the one moment he’s not here. He’ll want to check you over, I expect.”

Flambeau was very tired. He began to see why Father Brown liked having Mrs McCarthy around. It was rather comforting to be able to have a conversation in which the other party did 100% of the talking.

“Father Brown’s been worried sick, with you being asleep so long. He stayed awake half the night, just _watching_ you, even though both Dr Farnham and myself kept telling him, sleep _is_ the best medicine. I honestly do not know what you’ve done to deserve such loyalty and care from that man, I really don’t.”

 _Nor do I, Mrs McCarthy,_ Flambeau thought. _Nor do I._

“He didn’t want to leave you at all, but our Penelope convinced him to go downstairs and join her and Hornby for breakfast. Do you know Hornby? Oh well, never mind, I’m sure you’ll meet him soon enough. It looks like you’ll be staying her for the long run. I don’t want you galivanting off across Europe again until you’re a picture of health. For the Father’s sake more than yours, you understand, I don’t think his heart rate could take it.” But even as she said this, she reached over and patted Flambeau’s arm again. It was an exceptionally long time since Flambeau had felt mothered, but he found he didn’t have the strength to complain, or even to mind too much. “Heaven only knows what a mess they’ve made of that kitchen,” Mrs McCarthy continued, absentmindedly. “But someone had to stay here. Father Brown would never forgive himself if you stopped breathing again and quietly slipped away while no-one was watching.”

“Can I see him?” Flambeau said. His voice was even more hoarse and frail now, in equal parts startling and frustrating him. He sounded small, and vulnerable, and he hated it.

“Oh!” said Mrs McCarthy, clearly also startled and alarmed by this. “Yes, yes I expect- I expect he’ll want to know you’re awake. I’ll just go and let him know, and then I’ll go and find that good for nothing doctor.”

And with that she practically sprinted toward the door. Flambeau supposed he must look and sound even worse than he felt.

“Mrs McCarthy?” he called, feebly, just as she was at the door.

“Yes?” she sighed, turning back to face him.

“Merry Christmas.”

She gave him the smallest of smiles, and then was gone.

Flambeau had almost drifted back into sleep when he heard the door opening, and a small group of people entering the room. He opened his eyes to see Father Brown, in pyjamas and dressing gown, looking worryingly pale and tired, and moving worryingly slowly, leaning heavily on Miss Windermere, who held onto his arm. Bringing up the rear of the little procession was a thin old man dressed in black attire, carrying a tray with three mugs on it. He supposed this must be Hornby.

Bunty Windermere helped Father Brown into the little chair, still positioned at Flambeau’s bedside. “Hello Flambeau!” she said, brightly, though it was a false sort of brightness that masked obvious worry and tiredness. Flambeau wondered briefly if he ought to apologise, for ruining her Christmas. “How are you feeling?”

“Dreadful, thank you, Miss Windermere,” he rasped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the corner of Father Brown’s mouth twitch in amusement, and could have wept in relief at this sign that his brilliant, bright, humour-filled priest was still himself, not replaced by some hollow, frail, stranger.

“It’s been an awfully long time since you’ve eaten or drunk anything, so Hornby’s brought you some cocoa!” Bunty said, cheerily. Flambeau began to wonder if the forced brightness really _was_ a deliberate mask, or just a symptom of stress and sleep deprivation. At least he now knew that man was Hornby.

Flambeau watched silently as Hornby placed the tray down on the little table next to the vase of flowers, before turning his gaze properly onto Father Brown. It felt almost scandalous, seeing Father Brown out of his cassock. He swallowed, gaze flicking up and down the priest’s body. Despite how pale and fragile he looked, the pyjamas made him look sort of homely. Soft. Warm. Comforting. _Adorable._ Flambeau realised for the first time that he too was wearing pyjamas. He wondered briefly whose he was wearing. His gaze once more reach Father Brown’s face, and with a start he realised that Father Brown was gazing just as intently down at him.

Bunty cleared her throat. Flambeau wondered with a faint blush how long she’d been watching him, just staring at Father Brown.

“Hornby, don’t you think we’d better give Father Brown and Flambeau some peace and quiet?” she said, pointedly meeting Flambeau’s gaze, and subtly raising an eyebrow at him.

Flambeau felt scandalised. _How much does she know?_ he thought. **_How_** _does she know?_

“Indeed,” said Hornby, and with a small bow, he pleasantly said “Merry Christmas, gentlemen,” and then both he and Miss Windermere turned and left, shutting the door behind them, leaving Father Brown and Flambeau quite alone.

Silently, without saying a word, and to Flambeau’s infinite wonder, Father Brown reached out and took Flambeau’s hand, silently entwining their fingers. “You scared me,” he said at last, in the softest voice Flambeau had ever heard. “You stopped breathing, Hercule. For a good few minutes. I thought-” he broke off, seemingly unable to make eye contact, and stared at their entwined hands instead. “I thought you were really gone this time, Hercule,” he whispered.

The words _“this time”_ caused pangs of guilt to knot uncomfortably in Flambeau’s stomach. Had the Father been this worried every time he’d faked his death? He made a silent resolve to stop doing that, at least not without making sure Father Brown knew he was alive straight away.

Flambeau opened his mouth, then closed it again, then opened it again, desperately searching for the words to say. He closed his fingers tightly around Father Brown’s. “My priest,” he whispered, sadly.

Father Brown gave him a watery smile. “Hercule?” he said, suddenly.

“Yes?”

“May I… May I kiss you?”

Flambeau gaped at him. He must have misheard. He must’ve misunderstood, somehow. “…Kiss me?” he said, weakly.

Father Brown let go of Flambeau’s hand and held his own hands in his lap, looking away awkwardly. “You don’t… You don’t have to. I just- I thought-”

“Yes!” said Flambeau, sounding rather more panicked than he intended. “Please! I- I’d like you to. Very much.”

Slowly, awkwardly, and clumsily, Father Brown cupped Flambeau’s face in his hand, bent over, and hesitantly pressed his lips to Flambeau’s. It was the clumsy, nervous, and inexperienced kiss of a man who hadn’t kissed anyone in a very long time, and Flambeau could not possibly have thrilled at a kiss more. With all the effort in the world, he feebly clutched at the lapel of Father Brown’s dressing gown, and gently pulled him back down into a second, slightly less terrible kiss.

With all his might, Flambeau wished he had the strength or the energy to kiss Father Brown properly. He longed to wrap his arms around his shoulders, run his fingers through his hair, nibble at his lip, explore his mouth with his tongue.

Instead, he settled for gruffly saying: “I adore you. With all my heart.”

Father Brown smiled widely, running his fingers through Flambeau’s hair. “And I you, Hercule,” he said.

“I don’t deserve it,” Flambeau said, his voice still frustratingly frail and rasping.

“Everyone deserves to be loved, Hercule,” said Father Brown, simply, his own voice sounding weak and tired. “I happen to love you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to learn to accept that.”

“Alright,” said Flambeau, with a smile. “I think I can do that.”

And with that, he slipped back into a deep sleep. He was safe, and warm, and loved. All was well.


End file.
